HD 'Seeing is Not Believing'
by tigersilver
Summary: Hogwarts Era. Established relationship. Pansy Parkinson is seeing things and she's not best pleased. 'Specially as it results in locked classrooms and leads to nasty interactions with Gryffindicks. Bah!
1. Chapter 1

HD 'Seeing Is _Not _Believing'

For subtlefire, for her birthday (belated, as I am, always)

**Part One**

Seeing things, that's what.

A whisk of distinctive black school robes, slapping 'round corners where they'd no business being. Two sets, if her eyes didn't deceive her: one bespoke Italian and the other Malkin-made and tatty at the hemline. Unexplained mouth-shaped purply-yellowing spots on Draco's neck at breakfast, just where he'd not see when performing a shaving spell—and wasn't that a tooth mark smack in the middle of Potter's nape, as well?

Pansy sat behind the little git in DADA and instantly noticed it. Blinked. _Who_ was biting Potter, for Merlin's sake? Who _would_?

Four sets of trouser legs and two pairs of shoes that should have absolutely nothing to do with one another in a world right and proper sighted playing peekaboo from behind the tapestry of Gwendoline the Three Quarters-Giantess, over in the corridor that led to Hufflepuff.

Granted, it was a very large tapestry, as Gwen herself had also been very large, thereby abiding only a glimpse of footwear and attached legs in passing and, granted, Pansy would never admit she was snogging a Hufflepuff boy and thus owning up—by default and easy inference—to having a reason for her scurrying through that particular Hufflepuff-leading corridor two hours after curfew, but…still. It was an… anomaly.

One of many…recent…anomalies.

She paused for the merest of moments, cocking her chin enquiringly at the telltale feet in the manner of a terrier, that especial anomalous evening, and regarded well the half-untied trainer laces trailing over and intermingling inextricably with the handcut leather tracery on a certain pair of well-known loafers. The feet were shifting over one another and hark! Was that not a groan she heard, ever so faintly?

This, in the midst of her own mad rush back to Slytherin, for to offend Snape by skiving curfew was to take one's life in both hands and fling it willy-nilly to the winds. But…still. How odd. _Those_ shoes, together?

_Those_ sorts of noises, issuing from behind the very large tapestry?

_Hmm_. Huh. There'd been a great lot of uncouth slurping noises, too, or so she reflected, returned to making hasty tracks for fear of Filch. _Someone_ had forgotten their silencing spells again, she'd warrant. Boys! Dratted boys!

Boys, yes; mates, no.

Partners, though. The two of them. In Potions of all places and it wasn't even always Professor Snape's doing. Thrice now they'd nonchalantly slid into the same work table bench and proceeded to huddle over a shared classroom cauldron, bickering, and thrice now Pansy and her opposing number Granger hadn't been able to keep their furtive gazes from the sight of those two heads butted up that close together. Was unnatural, that. Shouldn't be happening.

F'r'instance.

Wasn't that Potter with his lips practically grazing Draco's ear, nibbling away like some rodent? And wasn't that not_ her_ Draco—her closest male mate since childhood—not only allowing the liberty but giving the horrid Gryffindor a companionable poke in the ribs with a sharp elbow? And sneer-smirking too, in that fond manner he seldom let slip before the Slyth Youngers, much less before denizens of other Houses? And then didn't he slide a fortuitously unoccupied hand beneath the tabletop and proceed to make forearm and wrist motions that clearly indicated a grope-and-tickle in progress?All this directly under the gimlet eye of their Head of House? _Her_ Draco?

No. Really, no. Couldn't be.

Pansy blinked, lips parted in faint horror. She shook her sleek head and swallowed hard. When the Mudblood glanced over at her _again_—meaningfully, and for the fifth time in as many minutes, the silly cow; she'd land them in suds with Snape if she wasn't more careful !—didn't the two of them then have to share an appalled and very speaking Look, lasting the space of several too-long seconds?

Oh, Merlin! Pansy did her best to deny it.

It couldn't be that Draco Malfoy—of 'the' Malfoys—high in the instep as he was, had taken up with that horrible nasty failed Pretender to Heir Slytherin! That—that Gryffindick! Of all things, that was the most ridiculous notion Pansy had ever had the misfortunate to muse over. Besides, the two of them despised and detested each other. The enmity level was well known; Pansy herself had contributed nobly to the cause.

Bah! Pish-tosh and nonsense. She was simply seeing things that simply weren't occurring. Not enough rest was the only possible explanation for such abominations; her Huffle was entirely too demanding a lover, keeping her out of the dungeons all hours. Her mind—it was playing silly tricks upon her, that's what.

Never mind that her mate Draco would slither out of the Commons regularly every night at about a quarter after ten, ostensibly on his way to the Prefect's bath but really_ not_, judging by the way he smelt when he snuck back in again, hours later. Brutish, boyish and whiff-full of testosterone. _Not_ by any means purely redolent of the lemon verbena soap he preferred nor the lavender-vanilla scented shampoo.

Pansy knew Draco had a bit of an obsession with self-maintenance but no teenaged boy bathed so particularly every single night for that long a period—not one! Nor claimed to. Not unless they were engaged in wanking and in dire need of some privacy to do it in, and teenaged boys could care less really about privacy when it came down to wanking. (Pansy was possessed of an elder brother, the nasty git, and she _knew_; stupidhead Erwin would pull one off over _Playwitch _with only the flimsiest of wards set on his rooms, as if he could care less who might stumble in, unawares. Bother! 'Cause she had, once, and it had been quite the grossest, most disgusting view ever!)

Boys! Icky beings, and very careless.

But not generally Draco. Draco was different; he liked being clean and tidy. And still, this was too much, even for the mildly anal-obsessive…it was hours in the Prefect's bathroom Draco was spending if that were actually the case and no simple wank took a normal boy _hours_. It was actually just a matter of moments, really. If that. Even if it was mutual sort of hand-to-bits shuffling fumble (this Pansy knew, too; she was possessed of a—of a _boyfriend_, currently, if that's what one would term that awful Huffle sop she was, er, seeing. On the sly, naturally. As her Housemates would understandably flay her and then roast her dead person alive for daring to do so.)

No. No one singular rapid cock-yank took up that much time nightly. Nor five nor ten. either. Not even if her mate were a regular sex-holic. Even teenaged boys had their limits.

In any case—Pansy shook her head solemnly over it, tossing back her trailing locks—she knew whereof she spoke, metaphorically, on the subject of teenaged boys and Draco was acting peculiarly, even for one.

As was Potter. Poor bewildered Mudblood; the famed Gryffindor Brain spent a large part of her swotting in the Library time with her eyes popped wider than wide, staring at Potter, and sporting an expression of not-too-well disguised horror on her little Mudblood face. Pity. Even Pansy had to feel for her, really. If she was shocked by the idea, how might the Mudblood be coping?

Not well. Not well a'tall. But it was the Weasel prat who truly amused Pansy. She saw—along with various sights she was positive she'd no business seeing—the way in which the Weasel's eyes followed after his mate. It was pathetic. Poor prat was literally green. The colour, not the feeling. She really couldn't, by any miraculous stretch, bring herself to believe the Weasel entertained softer feelings for either his best mate _or _his arch-enemy. It was more in the manner of a conscientious chap observing a train wreck from the sidelines: helpless to do anything about it but absolutely knowing the worst was happening, right there, right then, directly under his freckled nostrils.

Pansy shuddered over her DADA essay, hard at task, fudging one set of facts as she mentally ticked off others.

Yes, Potter was acting oddly. Moon-struck, calf-like, and fixated on Draco.

Not that she cared to observe Potter in a deliberate manner, other than as any normal person would observe a freak in passing. Not that she cared a fig for Potter, either, but this—this exacerbated oddness of his, in combination with Draco's distinctive weirdness; it was all telling.

For instance. (And here Pansy chewed her favourite self-inking quill in her immense abstraction.) There was evidence it wasn't just her addled mind deceiving her.

The empty fourth floor classroom in Astronomy Tower, the old unused one everyone who was anyone employed (even she and her dangerously Hufflelish boy) for their romantic assignations, was now sticking fast and the door simply couldn't be opened, even with a barrage of Alohamoras. And if her ears didn't deceive her, she recognized the breathy little yelps and moans one could just discern if one pressed an ear to the gap between the hinges or the antique keyhole...or half of them, at least. But Blaise agreed—it was Draco behind that door.

Worse yet, and this after she and Blaise (and her poor, shuffling, ill-at-ease Huffle date, who'd likely entertained high hopes for the night, bless him) had bumped, quite by coincidence, into a shocked and not terribly civil Weasel and Mudblood, it was Potter as well. Yes, _Potter._

Behind the door. With the door locked against intruders. Firmly. Shutting he and Draco _in_.

It had been an unpleasant evening, all in all. She'd not managed to meet up again with her pet Huffle after, in private as planned, and the irritating Two of the bloody Golden Trio had insisted that she and Blaise come away with them to their ghastly Common room and waste time attempting to sort out the burning question of 'what to_ do_ about it!' As if—Pansy sniffed over the recollection of the bint's annoying screeching—there was anything to be done!

Hah! She'd like to see the Two drag Potter off of Draco. Or vice versa. Not fucking likely. Not from what _she'd_ already witnessed. With her own eyes, sod it, and her vision was tip-top and no mistake. No Parkinson had ever worn specs—not like that grabby, panty, Draco-molesting Pottyhead.

No…no. These things…they happened. Pansy—to her eternal shame—now knew all about it.

The spring to her mate's stride he couldn't quite hide, no matter how he attempted to slouch along sedately. The look perpetually appearing in his eyes recently—far away and dreamy-like, as if always in the midst of pondering lovely vistas; no, no, _that_ look couldn't be clicked off, no matter how often her friend publically brooded darkly over his texts in the library with his pointy chin tucked well down, concealing it. A fool would think he was completey absorbed; he wasn't. Pans had eyes and her eyes noted his eyes, which were always on Scarhead.

Silly boys. Really!

There was Potter's gaze, too, to be accounted for. That set of toad-green orbs which spent its every speccy moment stuck on a certain platinum blond bloke from a hostile House—_that_ was undeniable. They were blatantly eye-fucking one another, the two of them. Right out in clear view of any observer with half a brain!

Pansy rolled her own, black with temper and snapping, and relished the feeling of superiority. No one had a clue as to what _she_ got up to after hours, thanks ever so!

Bloody impolitic of them both but not to be naysay'd—and Potter's eyeballs, despite the specs, were an amazing shade and intensity of toadskin, even from a distance. Just as Draco mentioned...often. Pansy would give him that, at least. That Draco—_her_ Draco!—had taken up randomly flushing and nervously licking his lips when caught in the twin beams of Potter's stare for no reason whatsoever simply folded itself into the dirty mélange of speculation Pansy stewed over.

There was something going on…something fishy as the ruddy Lake, something tangled as the Squid or the Whomping Willow.

Bookbags carelessly lying atop one another in seemingly empty classrooms. Scuffling noises, interspersed with giggles. Giggles! The immense amount of moisturizer Draco brewed up, every chance he could sneak into Potions when the Head wasn't in attendance. Potter's suspicious lurking 'round Slytherin territory as if he'd a right to be there. Merlin! Potter's _neck_, which was black-and-blue and love-bitten all over! And Draco's suddenly volatile attitude, which had notched down from its arctic altitude and fast approached human and p'raps even soppy, with it—why, he'd not randomly hexed the Third Years in ages! Nor insulted a Hufflepuff, which was unthinkable, really, as it practically his hobby, after Potter-baiting.

Odd events, occurring. Often.

Odd like the fact both boys walked bowlegged often enough even when it wasn't a Quidditch match scheduled. Stiff of leg and straight of spine but undeniably gimpy, as if they each overcompensated for...for whatever strenuous exercise it was that had them shake-kneed after. Potty's lips, normally bitten dry and chapped, now moist, swollen and the exact shade of Gryff scarlet more often then not. Draco whispering what sounded shamefully like cushioning Charms when he sat down to brekkers of a morning.

...There was, too, at least with Draco, a certain 'come-hither' shimmy to his pelvic bones that had not been evident before. Shameful!

And more than once Pansy had been forced to physically turn her head to the one side and gaze fixedly into the Mudblood's shocked eyes, so as not to retch after glimpsing Potter's crotch; this area which bulged outward against his flies in the gap visible between the flaps of his never properly buttoned robes after a typical Slytherin-Griffindork hallway confrontation…_not_ that Potter was _in any way_ deficient. Quite the contrary, if Pansy had down pat her basic Arithmetical Intuitive Tables and could accurately guesstimate circumference and mass. Potter might be a scrawny little git—as Pansy's best mate had always pointed out—but he was golden where it counted, apparently. Which might then go on to explain her best mate's air of blowsy distraction and the blackest night of his blown pupils, after yet another of those sill hallway run-ins.

_Pooh!_ Pansy sneered to herself, snapping her teeth in frustration and hurridly scribbling out at least three inches of her dratted DADA essay. Boys—randy boys! Nothing but hormones walking, and they seemed to be toting about bushels of those! Being all of an age, of course, Scarhead and Draco, and then naturally the exact age to be thinking only of sex every seven seconds, religiously. Pansy admitted her inner horror, yes, but she wasn't a'tall surprised. Neither was she alone in her state of appalled revelation.

Mudblood. Granger—the Brain—had taken to elbowing Pansy familiarly after class in passing and then hauling her abruptly off into nooks-and-crannies to whinge, decry, bluster and then ultimately to bat about useless suggestions as to how to go about separating Potter and Draco. Or p'raps alternately to force the two gits to admit it, openly. Either/or, the Gryff contingent lusted after some action. Seemed the suspense was killing the poor Muggleborn bint; she just had to know for sure.

The Weaslelbee just hung about, in the role of accessory, mute as the rare Cringing Hedge Hare and wringing his overly large, ginger-spotted hands, looking greenish still. Shuffled his giant feet, too, something awful, when La Granger stuffed them all in broom closets to blather back-and-forth. Pansy was growing irked at having her spit-shine spells disrupted during these pointless little conferences. It was always in small cramped spaces and out of the way of the rest of the student body, as if the two Gryffindicks were ashamed to be seen in the company of a Slyth. And _nothing _was ever resolved and_ nothing_ ever decided and still—after being forced to converse without outright blows resulting with the Two Wankers—the other two, her Draco and that perv Potter, persisted in their highly secretive and disgustingly deviant behavior.

They did. Pans could not help but to notice the signs as she went about her own. Secretively, yes. She was no fool. Ashamed? No! Not sodding likely. Bloody damned Hufflepuff and his excessively gifted tongue! Who knew Huffles were _that_ affectionate, really?

No one _knew _anything—not for certain, at least. Not even Pansy.


	2. Chapter 2

**HD Seeing **

**For red_rahl**

**Part Two**

Pansy's visual perception issues continued unchecked. It was a bloody disconcerting.

Till one late Friday night when Draco stormed back into the dungeons in high dudgeon and slammed his way up to his dorm room, shutting Blaise, Theo and the lunks out in a snippy, firm, exceeding highhanded manner. When he let them in—at long last, and late the morning after—he was wan and rigid and his eyes were red-rimmed. Pansy took one look at the black circles 'neath them and the set of his jaw and sent off an owl origami bird to the Mudblood, requesting reinforcements._ Her_ Draco! The poor git was blatantly thoroughly devastated and it must be Potter's fault.

Must be. Always was, so stood to reason. And Pansy—no matter how she wished to deny it—was practical in these matters. Her Huffle experience had convinced her of that, at least. Shit happened. Blaise, too, what with his come-and-go attitude and his easy way of blandly shrugging off these minor items of House and pedigree. Blaise had shagged both Ravenclaws and Gryffindicks; Pansy had heard tell from Millie, that raunchy loudmouth. No House solidarity for that prat! But…surely, no one could ever deny Blaise was an aristocrat amongst aristocrats and, by Salazar's saggy buttocks, the boy was most certainly a good part foreign in his ancestry! These Continentals—what they got up to! Shocking!

Still…what with him setting an example for Slytherin…well. Well. P'raps it wasn't as bad as all that.

Vince and Greg could care less, anyway. They'd followed Draco's subtle lead recently and ceased outright physically abusing Potter (which rather left them with nothing to do but stand about, looming), but they didn't seem to either note nor care that Draco had gone straight off the deep end and was shagging the scrawny little shit on a nightly basis. No, not ones for deep circumspection into a fellow bloke's internal motivation, Greg and Vince; Pansy blessed her cauldron-and-crucible for that small favour. One less bother.

"Clearly, " Granger announced over an uncomfy InterHouse elevensies taken that same momentous weekend morning down Madame Puddifoot's, "we have to put a stop to it. Harry's miserable."

"Mphh!" Weasel nodded furiously, swallowing hastily to present his backing evidence. "S'true, you know," he shrugged. "Brooding in his bed as we speak, the twat. Wouldn't come out for anything, not even Honeyduke's." He nodded his blemished chin over it, as if Potty missing their Day Out was a terrible matter. "Sad business, what?"

Pansy sneered, unimpressed; her Huffle fellow was but half a room away, seated by his lonesome at a microscopic table-for-two and casting her repeated yearning hot glances. She'd put off her personal plans for this likely useless confab; something _would_ be accomplished or she'd murder the lot of them.

Blaise included. The prat had tagged along after her and refused to be shaken off.

"Then," she snapped, "deal with it, Mu-_Granger._ You're his mate. Make him make up with Draco. Soonest."

"Oh!" Granger was flustered. "Oh, _no_, Parkinson! But—But—it's! I didn't necessarily _mean_ to say _we_ should f-fix it!"

"Oh, now," the Weasel moaned, pouting into his tea cup, his features that sickly shade and his freckles appalling in contrast. "Objection, Parkinson. Must we? Really? Let's just let it go, like sensible people, alright? Have our tea and not worry overmuch. They'll get over it."

"Ronald!" The Mudblood was incensed. "Really! Teaspoon."

"Ohhh…" Blaise stepped in smoothly to shake a reproving finger at the Weasel, "but I'm with Pans. And—curse me for saying this aloud, but—agreeing with Granger here, Weasel. Our boy Draco's a bloody terror right now. No fun to be had with _him_."

"Yesss!" Pansy hissed loudly and fiercely, stomping her stiletto heel on his largest canvas-covered toe under the tablecloth—thereby gaining some modicum of revenge for her spit-shine spells. Why must silly Gryffindicks always waffle over the obvious? "We must! _I'll_ not be having my very best mate on this blasted earth lurching around like an Inferi, you twats. Death warmed over's the least of it—he's _awful_. _It's _awful—all of it. Make your bloody pet Hero-boy bloody man up, you Two. Or else!"

"Oh, but—really, we can't be—I mean, what if Harry doesn't…?"

"No 'buts', Granger—action. Your lot is all about action, isn't it? Just think of something to actually _do_ to resolve this cock-up… that is," she drawled, "if you're really so gifted as all that, Witch of the effing Century. There must be a sane and simple way to bring the idiot boys back together, snap-snap. Do it!"

"But, darling…" Blaise, the ever-mellow, interposed, offering her a soothing digestive. She snatched it and Vanished it instantly, scowling. "I have to venture we'll also be called upon to lend a hand to this, us Slytherins. You know how _he_ is, ducks. He'll never go for it, not if it's solely the Dorks here scheming. Persuasion, ducks; it's needed. Subtlety…delicacy of hand. _And _he'll be wanting to know we approve."

"Bah," Pansy retorted immediately, rolling her eyeballs in round renunciation at them all—useless buggers. "No, he doesn't. Never cared before, did he?"

"Oi!" Weaselbee seemed mildly offended for a moment… but then he shrugged it off, snapping his fingers and _un_Vanishing the offensive digestive. He crunched it down promptly , sending Blaise a bit of the stink eye all the same. "You give over! Not _dorks_, Zabini…so much as. As…well, more like, er…noble? That's it—_noble_. Upstanding, even. Us Gryffs—we're known for it. House characteristic—just like you all are sneaky and evil."

"Oh, Ronald," the Mudblood sighed. "Just stuff it. Give over and cease being completely ridiculous. It's not like they care or anything, 'least not about_ your_ opinion. 'Sides, we need 'sneaky' right now, remember? This is about _Harry_."

"My sweet arse, Weasel," Blaise returned kindly. "Nobody's that noble anymore; so passé. Try 'namby-pamby' on for size, yeah? And rude, too. Oh, and maybe 'nosy'. Since you insist on sticking yours where it doesn't belong and insulting us so casually. How rude."

"Hey! I don't!"

"Yes, Ronald, you do," the Mudblood jumped in. "Every opp. Zabini—Godric save us all—is spot on. Do be quiet for a bit. We have to think."

"Bloody fuck," Weasel mumbled, taking refuge in his cup and looking vaguely hurt. "Was just saying—and noble is not passé, Zabini. S'not."

"Pfft!" Blaise snickered. "_You_ say, Weasel. I don't. Boring, boring, boring."

"Oh, Salazar's bleeding skivvies…" Pansy moaned, dropping her head in her hands. Once again the sniping had overtaken good sense and trounced it. "Do stay on task, you lot. Scarhead? Draco? Remember _them_?"

"Like I just said, Parkinson," Weaselbee replied sulkily, "_must_ we? 'Cause I don't see the point, exactly."

"I know!" Granger leapt up, much in the manner of someone who has conquered a mountaintop. Her startling move diverted attention from the Weasel's guilty-greenish flush nicely. Come to think…were all Gryffs tainted the hue of pond scum? Intrigued, Pansy looked to the Mudblood with heightened interest. Green, brown…a sort of reddish all over the Weasley git…

"I _know_," the girl repeated, reverently. She nodded happily, and helped herself to a cauldron-cake, liberally slathered in polka-dot icing. "I _do_."

"You do?" Weasel squeaked; he'd moved to grimly munching up the crumpets. He slewed his gingery great lump of a head swiftly about to stare at her. "Again? _Why _must you, Hermione? Why must you _always_? Can't you just _not_, for once? Give poor Harry a chance to move on through this—this aberration. A break, woman—is that too much to ask? From the drama?"

"Shut it, fool." Pansy waved a hand at him. "You're not helping. No more from your flapping freckled Neanderthal lips or I'll hex you—and but _good_; don't think I shan't." She returned her glittering gaze to rest upon the quietly triumphant Mental Giant. "Now. Go on, then, Granger. Spill. What's your great scheme?"

"Propinquity," Granger replied promptly, taking a demure sip of tea. "Privacy. _Personality_…traits, that is. Theirs—all theirs. Not ours. Nor our Houses, Ronald," she added thoughtfully, jostling him. "_We_ do…nothing. Don't lift a ruddy finger, any one of us. They're both stubborn enough to do it themselves. Ron's right. Zabini's wrong. Let's butt out, shall we? I think it'll work."

"Whaaat?" The Weasel's turn to be incensed, this time 'round—and certainly he'd the complexion for it. "I _am_? Hermione, you're so unfair, damn it! Don't wanna be right, sod it! For fucks's sake."

"Well…" She glared at him. "You are, for once, so bugger off. We'll do it your way."

"Hhn." Blaise blinked. "Um…could work, I s'pose." He seemed dubious, though. "You're sure no interference, though, Granger? That just doesn't sit properly, pardon me for saying."

"I'm sure."

"_Whaaat_ what? No, really, Hermione! You're not just gonna let it happen?" Weasley howled softly enough but still managed to turn heads. Puddifoot's was full to bursting this fine morning, packed with happy couples. He grasped at her arm, oblivious to all that, shaking it and sloshing her tea to-and-fro. "But, but—you _know_ Harry—how he is over the git—you _know_ he'll cave in the end. Bloody Merlin's filthy undies, he won't stand a chance if Malfoy goes after him like _that_—have you seen his neck recently? He's all over bite marks, Hermione, as it is! It's—it's frightening, is what. Like vampires let loose in Hogwarts, Hermione." Weasel shuddered. "Terrible."

"Pooh." Granger waved him off. "One clean bite for vampires, Ron. They don't gnaw a person half to death; that's all Malfoy, sadly. Look, Ron. Cope, please. It's what he wants."

Pansy folded her lips and maintained a thoughtful silence for the moment. Yes, actually, it was what they both wanted—the prats. Demonstrably. Chewing on one another indiscriminately like silly Fourthies and stupidly sneaking about to do it. Prats, _definitely_.

"Hee!" Blaise chucked softly, bobbing his handsome chin. He may've—just may've been giggling. Despicably _un_Slytherin of him but there it was. Pansy shrugged; Continentals, what?

"Ahem…sorry. You know? That's actually quite brilliant, Granger." Her fellow Draco-booster smirked sweetly, toasting her with his cup. "Clean and simple in concept—smooth. Propinquity, privacy _and _personality—super. And aren't they all alone, our little lovebirds, back there stuck at good old Hogwarts for the day? You did notice neither of them showed at breakfast? Made me wonder, that; something off there. Likely laying wait; jump each bones when we're gone. That'd be Draco's thinking, yes. You know, I think we're on the right track here. Let them at it, yes. Should work. "

"Huh." Pansy quirked an inquisitive eyebrow, focusing on the Brain and ignoring her fellow Slyth's opinion. "Hmmm." He was likely correct in his logic but there was no point in telling him so and thus bolstering his bloody ego. Blaise's ego routinely took up a large part of the Commons, it was inflated enough already. Thank Salazar he was also charming enough to make up for it. "Hmm, alright, Granger. Good enough, I s'pose" she allowed finally. "To go on with. And," Pans humped a shoulder, "I see your point, Mud—Dork—er, _Granger_. We're obviously all here in the village—out for the whole day, too, so a free run of the premises is a given—and they can—"

"And they're safely back at Hogwarts," Blaise repeated, grinning openly, "all alone, entirely at loose ends. Jumping, pouncing—er…making hay whilst the kneazle's away, like."

"Yes, Blaise. We understand, so—"

"In a semi-deserted castle," Blaise kept on, having warmed to his theme. "No bloody Filch to oversee them and the Profs are busy enough elsewhere, I'm sure. It works, Pans—it does! Even Headmaster's out—and Snape's up Town for the day, in Knockturn. Privacy's taken care of. And as for personality, your Potty's," he winked at the Two, "a determined little wanker and he's not half-bad at seeking for a Gryffindick, either. Too, he's got a built-in advantage, yeah? Little magical helpers, shall we say? Neither is our boyo any slouch…so? Yeah. Opportunist, both of 'em. What odds they'll find—"

"One another," groaned Weaselbee, dolefully in agreement. "Right quick! Merlin, Zabini—you just sodding _know _they will! 'Least, Harry will. _Oi_!"

He seemed suddenly struck by a hard, unwieldy, rather blunt idea, much in the manner of his recent medical celebrity engendered by being slammed arse-over-teakettle by a passing Bludger and yet still managing to Keep. Smack square on the forehead, as Pansy recollected, was the blow, which might explain a fair amount of the gloom. And p'raps also the ongoing faint greenish cast to his pale befreckledness—could be residual bruising.

"What, Weasel?" Pansy quirked an eyebrow. "Problem?"

"Oi, _yes_!" The Weasel waved a cake accusingly, flinging crumbs. "_Yes_, problem—as a matter of fact, Parkinson. I do!" The notion, having seized him, was apparently a hot button. He gulped and shoved the cake under Blaise's elevated nose. "You Slytherin lot! You sneaky little bastards, poking about! You already knew Harry's got the Map? Didn't you? I bet you did, blast it. Up to your tricks, same as always. But—but, how'd you ever ferret that out? Was s'posed to be top sec—"

"What Map?" Pansy leapt upon the mention, always and ever curious. "Map? Map of where, precisely? Is this a spell, Weaselbee, you refer to? Or a magical object? What've I missed, Blaise?" She turned to her fellow Slyth. "Tell me, you slag; tell me right now or I'll curse your bollocks Gryffindor colours!"

"Pansy—Pansy, m'sweet," Blaise murmured, attempting to pet her, "it's no biggie. Just a little…party trick Potty has in his possession. Git's a little giddy over it, is all. Uses it to track our Draco, mostly. Nothing to worry your pretty head over, darling. Disregard it, ducks."

"I'll be the judge of that, Zabini!"

"Ron—you! You idiot!" Granger was apoplectic; on the verge of creating a scene, what with scrambling almost off her seat to lay a confining hand over the Weasel's blabbing mouth. "Shhhh!"

"Mmmphff!"

The Weasel glowered suspiciously even muffled; Blaise only shrugged and slid him a supremely smarmy look.

"…Blaise?" Pansy prompted, ominously. "What's going on here?"

He ignored her, looking instead to the muted Weasel.

"Look, you're making too much of it, old chap. And of course we knew, Dorks." He tipped his chin in derference to a fulminating Granger. "And_ I_ learnt of it the exact same way I learn of everything, Weaselbee, to answer your question: through keen observation and the fruitful grapevine of InterHouse gossip. Besides…your little sister? The fiery bint; has better looks than the rest of your lot combined? Well, she's been seeing Corner, and Corner's been seeing Millie on the side, Merlin help him, and Corner's got no discretion to him, so—"

"**Oi**!" This time the Weasel roared, straight through the Brain's desperate fingers. "Ginny is?" The green was completely replaced with scarlet, nearly puce; which, Pansy noticed, was a bit Christmassy in feel, but still not a very good look for the Weasel. The git was better off pale, if ginger-speckled. "_M'sister_? What's this about my sister?"

"Shush, Ron!" Granger was horrified; so horrified she pinched her mate quite nastily on the wrist. "Oh –my-suffering-gods, _do_ lower your voice, won't you? They're all looking our way!"

Pansy checked, sparing a glance; yes, they were. Including her Huffle, who seemed despondent at being ignored. Poor sweetiekins.

She shivered in horror; had she just thought that? Oh, mercy!

"That's only speculation, Ron—no one knows about it for sure, you git," Granger was babbling frantically, yanking her outraged companion back into his chair. "_And _the ruddy Map, Ron! Don't speak of it! Or anything else, for that matter! For Merlin's sake, don't run off your idiot lips and give away any more of Harry's secrets! He'll slay you—and so. Will. I!"

"Oh, please!" Blaise snorted into outright laughter at the scuffle, flapping his hands. "Like we Slyths don't know all that goes on, mates. Pfft! Your Scarhead's Map thingy is old news. So's his cloak. 'Sides, a ruddy half-brain Hufflepuff could manage to work out the little git had some sort of magical advantage to go on with; it was simple enough to deduce it was an object in place of a Charm, and likely not of his making, either. Draco's always maintained Potty's pants when it comes to Charms—_so_—stands to reason—"

"Shut it, Zabini!" Granger ordered ferociously. "Liar! There _is_ no Map—there was never a Map and we know nothing about it! Just—shut—it!"

"**What**_**ever**__._" Pansy had had enough of idle chit-chat; time was wasting and she'd a date waiting her. Impatiently, too, judging by the hot-and-heavy under-the-lashes glances he was telegraphing. "I really could care less 'bout what Potty has or hasn't—other than _our_ Draco." She squeezed her thighs together firmly, resisting the lure of her Huffle, and focused on getting the job done, the sooner to be off to him and his luscious tongue. "Right. If _you_ think it's sufficient, Granger—this plan of just leaving them be to get on with it? Well, if _you_ do, ducks, then_ I'm_ buying in. You're the Brain, you know your kind best and _we_ happen to know Draco's neither a fool nor a nancy-boy; he'll sort your Hero-boy out, one way or another. Set him straight—er, well…whatever it is they end up being, straight or no. In any event, might as well prepare for the worst, folks. Now—may we end this? Please? Because I happen to have a life waiting for me."

"I do, too, actually," Grainger replied primly and promptly. "And _our_ Harry's not some slow bloke, either, Parkinson; he'll be the one sorting, mark my words. You can be certain of it."

"Right-oh!" Weasel cheered, distracted. "Cheers. That's _our_ Harry for you. Gryffindor all the way, by gum. Can sort out the rotters."

"Rotters, Weasel? Thanks ever so, dickweed—same to you."

"Hey! Uncalled for, Parkinson," Weasel blinked at her innocently. "I'll have you know I'm hurt. You Slyths _are_ rotters. Hat says so."

"Ronald!"

Pansy shook her head sadly. It really was a lost cause and her precious Day Out was ticking away, all too quickly.

"Huh. Sure…okay, then. Rotters it is, and proud of it. Right—enough banter. Let's wrap it up, shall we? I've been bored to tears enough already as it is."

She sniffed; Weasley grunted, nodding amiably, the Brain threw up her hands at all of them and Blaise just chuckled darkly into his cup, murmuring what sounded suspiciously like: "Ridiculous wankers, all of you!"

Everyone ignored that; Zabini might be charming but he was also not of the slightest consequence when it came to dealing with Draco and that squirrely Scarhead. The matter—finally—had been settled, by the mates that mattered.

Pansy harrumphed softly, satisfied. Now. On to the remainder of her day-

"…But." Granger hunkered down to business, setting her cup aside and propping her chin on her fist as she regarded Pansy. "Still. One more thing. What about your end of it, Parkinson? Malfoy, I mean. What's your real take on him? You Slytherins are a cagey lot and, er…let's call it 'cautious', alright?"

"Cowardly, more like," Weasel mumbled.

"Shut your gob, Ron—"

Weasel shrugged. "Just sayin'."

"…And? Your point, Granger?" Pansy raised a brow and sneered down her dainty nose. "Is what?"

"Look here, Parkinson, I need to know this. S'important for Harry. Does your mate Malfoy have a halfway decent head on his shoulders? More than that, does he, in fact, own bollocks? _Is_ he a real bloke underneath all that bluster or a yellow-bellied Tweetwhistle? 'Cause all we've ever seen of him is him backing down in a right hurry or squealing like a girl and running away, you know? Playing hard to get, is what. So, er…d'you think he'll be content to just lay about pouting, waiting it out for Harry to track him down and settle up, or d'you think he'll really man up and _do_ bloody something about this cock-up? Go after Harry, now he's got a clear field? Because Harry deserves a much better man than your Malfoy—and I—"

"Hear, hear!" Weasel waved a crumpet. "Ain't it the truth?"

"—Ron!—"

"Shush, Weasel," Blaise cautioned, also leanimg in, intent on Granger's narrow-eyed fervor. "Want to hear what your mate here is saying."

"And Malfoy's cowardice," Granger was saying, "could very well be a problem here. Takes two to tango, Parkinson. What if he bolts?"

"You mean waltz, do you not?" Pansy bridled. "Please do attempt to act at least slightly cognizant of your borrowed cultural lore, Granger—Wizards waltz, not gallivant about like erumphants—or Muggles. And _you_! Don't _you_ dare doubt _my_ Draco!" she ordered, irked. "You've not seen him stand up to his horrid father, have you? Or Snape, for that matter? He's more man than any of _you_ Gryffingeeks, that's positive. Even you, Granger!"

"Well, then." Granger settled back again, apparently entirely unoffended by the implicit accusation she possessed a handsome set of brass bollocks under those girly robes of hers. If anything, she was a bit pleased. "If you're sure, then."

"I'm sure! Sod you, Granger! How you _could_? The very idea!"

"Take action, definitely," Blaise was nodding wisely and calmly, a sea of tranquility amongst the squabbling—and evidently stuck mentally several points arrears. "Draco's a piece of work; absolutely, I admit. Can be a real pain, yes, yes. True enough, but he's not about letting his main squeeze vacate his clutches once he's claws in. Push comes to shove, Granger, he'll make it happen. Potter's toast. You'll see."

"Perfect," Granger nodded urbanely. "We're set. The two of them can go at it, then—and we let them." She stared 'round the table, finally settling her piercing gaze upon the Weaselbee, who seemed a bit shifty now that Pansy was paying him attention. "Ahem…" the girl cleared her throat rather ominously, "that is to say, we all agree to stay well out if it. No meddling. That's _all of us_, Ronald."

"Hmm?" Weasel had been distracted by the teapot, knocking with his wand to refill it. "What's that, Hermione? You say something?"

"Let them handle it between them," she cautioned sternly, "and we will all proceed to enjoy the remainder of our Saturday out. Starting now, please. No more tea, Ron. I've a lot to accomplish yet."

"Cheers," Pansy snorted. "Point, Granger. I'm so with you on that."

Weasel grunted, pouring out. Unfazed and unswerving, Granger jabbed a harsh finger into his sternum.

"Ron Weasley."

"Sheesh, Hermione!" He juggled to pot deftly. "You're making me drip!"

"I'm speaking to you; pay heed, prat. By which it is to say I refer to _you_, Ronald Weasley, specifically, when I say 'all of us'—no mistake. No sneaking back to Hogwarts to interfere when you think I'm not watching. 'Cause I am. Always."

"We noticed," Blaise smirked. "Can't help but."

"Oh!" Weasel huffed instantly, dropping the pot with a thump and sitting back in a slumpy sort of pout, crossing his arms over the huge expanse of his no doubt befreckled span of thug-like chest. "Bugger!" he huffed. "Like I was even thinking of it, Hermione. Give me a break, will you? You're such a suspicious bint."

"You were," Granger intoned severely. "I know you. Give over, Ronald. _Don't _think. Take me to Scribner's, just like you promised."

"Hnh." Pansy observed the Gryff boy narrowly; _he_ was the suspicious sort, yes indeedy. Granger likely had the right of it. Best mates were, in her humble opinion, very interfering types and generally ones to meddle whenever they felt the need strike. She should know, wouldn't she? "Is this going to be a problem, you two? Ginger's going to muck it up?"

"_Fine_. And _no_—not, sod it." Weasel snapped his teeth at them and resumed picking away at his cooling scone, messing with the butter and jam and then licking off his fingertip, just like a plebian. Followed that by snatching up a muffin. "Huh!" he snarled blackly, regarding the interior with an unhappy face. "Not if you all are making such a huge deal of it, I won't. But then—after? Don't come running to me if they're miserable after, Hermione. Parkinson." He glared indiscriminately at both his female companions and waved the muffin madly . "'Specially Harry. Definitely _not_ Malfoy. I'm not jollying _anyone_ out of _anything_, mates. Count on it. Had more than enough of this male bonding shit recently, I tell you. Bloody Harry—and his bloody broody fits. Like a bloody girl. Never shuts his gob; dreams about that lily-white wanker and then has to tell me all about it after, of a morning. You don't know, people, how much it is I suffer. Bah! Pathetic."

"Oh, Ron," Granger sighed, humping her shoulders. "Really, now." She gave him a Gryffindor-patented burning glare under Pansy's disinterested smirk and Blaise's knowing grin and Vanished the flying crumbs, too, with nary a blink. "He's your friend. Your best mate, Ron. You know you'll always be there—"

"I won't," the Weaselbee snorted, shaking his untidy do. "I'll not—not this time, Hermione. He's wet over Malfoy, get it? Doesn't see reason. Won't, should I say?" The Weasel shrugged, looking distinctly put out. "Likes it, for some reason, all this trailing about after that git, mooning over him. Hiding in corners. Acting like that sodding dead couple you were telling me about—Normeo and Julie, was it? Seems to think it's…it's romantic or some rot."

"Romeo and Juliet, Weasel," Blaise offered. "Very famous…but yes. Deceased. Things didn't work out well."

"All to the good," Pansy announced firmly. "Draco's just as damp. Writes poetry—bah!" She shuddered theatrically. "Sonnets. Haiku. The odd couplet. Insists on leaving it about, too, for me to critique. Right-oh. Leave them to it, then. All better off—and let's go _now_, alright?_ I've_ a schedule to keep, at least—someone's waiting on me."

"Oh? Really, now?" Blaise's chocolately orbs sharpened like knives on the stone. "Hum."

"Yes," Pansy replied shortly. "Shove off, Blaise. Look here. Settle up the tab, shall I? Since I'm feeling stupidly generous. Must be my overwhelming relief in having this debacle done with."

"Hmmm…." Blaise was still humming. "Hnh."

"Brill," Granger nodded, not noticing the byplay between Slyths as she slurped down tea. "Us, too. Come along, Ron. Scribner's."

"Huh? Now, this moment? Oh, but, Pansy," Blaise's gaze observed Pansy as she began to bustle about, gathering her things, preparatory to shifting tables . "Pansy, my sweet—_I_ thought—weren't we? As I'm all on my own, here."

"Nope. No dice, Blaise." Pansy was firm as she cut him off. "Not with me. You're on your own, kiddo."

Weasley glowered preemptively. "Well!" he snorted, shaking his head. "You're certainly not coming with us, Zabini! Don't be even thinking it!"

"Wouldn't dream of it, Weasel," Blaise answered smartly. "Want to have a pleasant Day Out, I do."

"Whatever._ I'm_ going," Pansy snarled. "Alone, thanks."

Across the way, her ever-so-patient Hufflepuff perked up dramatically, his eyes brightening. He, at least, was focussed entirely upon her—had been, devotedly, all this time—and Pansy did admit she'd taken especial care with her looks this morning, what with knowing she'd be seeing him as soon as this time-wasting confabulation with the Two and idiot Blaise was done with.

"Well…not alone," she muttered. "Really."

Hmm, _niiiice_. She shivered in anticipation, catching the latest in a string of sizzling stares; her Huffle certainly cleaned up well. She spared an appreciative return look-see to his long legs in neatly pressed trousers, folded in an ungainly fashion under one Madame's fussy little crinoline-lined tea tables. His manly bum as he jiggled about impatiently—his wide well-muscled chest—his brilliantly white smile, which was ruddy glowing as he gazed besotted at her.

"Pansy? Ready?" he mouthed, across the way, and she nodded discreetly. Not quite smiling in return, p'raps, but thinking about it, definitely. "Pansy—now?"

"Pans," Blaise was yapping insistently at her, still. "Pansy, m'girl, I rather thought we two could go off to Zonko's. I need some—and then there's—and you can't be leaving me alone here, Pans. It's too pink to bear without you. No can do. That's all there is to it."

"No," Pansy barked, pinning her other mate with a meaningful stare. "_Not_. I'm staying here, thanks. In the pink, thanks. Go by yourself, Blaise. I've a—I've a… _date_."

"Good for you," Granger chimed in mildly enough. "So do we, Ronald. Stop eating everything in sight, please, and make yourself ready."

"Hermione!" Weasel whinged at her piteously. "You know I only eat because I'm pressured, don't you? It's stressful, my life. At least let me finish. Mum's always said 'waste not, want not'."

"What, dear?" Blaise cocked a wary eyebrow at her. "Pans, darling. A…date, you say? Now…why didn't I know about this?" he mused. "Hmmm…how unlike you. I didn't think any bloke would dare."

"Hah, very hah. Funny, Zabini. Shut it, will you? You've no reason to know, twat."

"But, darling," Blaise grinned at her, ever so daftly. He caught her sleeve, which was also daft—as Pansy would hex him for wrinkling it as soon as look at him cock-eyed. "I'm curious now. With whom?"

"Let go! And—and it's _him_, if you must know. Over there."

She bobbed her pert chin in the Huffle's direction; he was halfway out of his chair and beckoning madly to her, clearly caught between the divergent notions of simply rushing over to grab her and the instinct to guard the table he'd snagged and set claim to much earlier. There was a queue-up at the doorway already, people fighting to get in; Pans had to admire his forethought—also his strong thighs, flexing as he flailed about, waving off contenders for Madame's bilious pink ruffled décor, weak tea and her somewhat dryishly-bland scones.

"Him?" Blaise looked about him, right past the huffing Huffle. "Who, him? Where, darling?"

"With _him_. Over yonder—wearing the Hufflepuff robes. He's the one. And it's now that I'm having it, so, er… ciao, Blaise. Goodbye now." She glanced at the Two, who were quietly finishing off the pot of tea, Granger having grudgingly given in to Ma Weasley's sage and parsimonious advice. "Oh—and ta, you pitiful Potter-minders. Best of luck with it and all that. Good day."

"You, too, Parkinson," Granger said, not looking up. Weasley grunted something unintelligible, but at least with his lips shut completely over his mouthful, which Pansy supposed was rather decent… for him.

"Pansy, m'love." Blaise's eyes had gone very round, and he looked a bit dazed. "Hufflepuff, Pansy?"

"Yes. Shut it."

More than ready to move on with her Day Out, she cocked a pinkie at her Huffle, crooking it to summon him. The prized table at Madame Puddifoot's could really go hang. She'd had more than enough tea for a morning and a spot of privacy with her boyfriend sounded much the better prospect.

Like a shot, he was entirely on his feet, all six foot, three inches of him, and smiling toothily at her. Rather like a Kneazle, fawning over smoked salmon. Pansy blushed under the full blast of it; those hungry stares her Huffle gave her always did squishy, happy things to her innards. She dared to carefully curl her freshly re-spelled scarlet lips in return this time and her Huffle visibly gulped at the favour, Adam's apple bobbing, and practically launched himself across the table he'd claimed earlier, blithely abandoning it to the surging crowds of fellow students.

"Pansy!" he was heard to yelp, ducking and weaving like the Beater he was. "Pansy, hold up! I'm coming!"

"Not yet," Pansy hummed to herself, the curl stretching wide enough to become rather feline. She tossed back her hair, sending a quick smoothing Charm over it. "Not yet, ducks. But soon, I hope. And me, too."

"….Huffle….puff…" Blaise murmured. "Salazar's skivvies!" To himself, as no else present took immediate note. "Puff…Puff…Puff…Puff!"

"Er…what?" Granger's chin snapped up; must've been that last 'Puff!' of Zabini's, rot him. "Did you say something, Parkinson?" Her gaze turned to Blaise. "Zabini?"

"Hufflepuff, then. Oh, really_ really_?" Blaise smirked, his eyes fixed on the Huffle in question. He seemed rather bemused yet. "Huh. _That_ way, is it?"

"Huh?" The Weasels's jaw dropped, bouncing against his collarbone audibly, as he craned his head round to make out precisely whom it was Pansy Parkinson was smiling at so winsomely. "What, what? You've a date, Parkinson? And with—who, him? _Him_! That chap, plowing toward us? But—but that's Stephen Winkle, Parkinson! He's a—he's a bloody Hufflepuff! Good gods! My eyes!"

"Oh, my!"

A muted gasp was heard from other occupant of the Gryff side of the table; the Brain's gaze swiveled over to surgically examine Pansy's date.

"…Merlin," she concluded, with a feeble smile. "How…um. Nice?"

"What's come over you?" The Weasel leaned over the table to examine her closely. "You alright, Parkinson? Maybe you should sit down or something—take a load off. There's an illness going 'round—Mum just wrote me of it-"

"None of your business, Weasel." Pansy clicked her back teeth. The Weasel might rail against 'drama' but he was certainly capable of creating some himself—and not that bloody Zabini wasn't as guilty as he. Bloody boys! "I'm very well, thanks. Shove off."

"Ah?" Granger's eyebrows disappeared under the shrubbery she laughingly called her coiffure. She was back to staring at Pansy's date again. "Um, actually him?" Not that anyone could miss Pansy's Stephen—he was rather tall and rather gangly, too…long-limbed, he, and in all the proper places. "Er…uh, why?"

"But—But—Huffle—Hufflepuff, Parkinson! Huffle!" The Weasel gurgled. "It is! A Huffle, I tell you. Sit, Parkinson, sit!"

"Shut it, ginger git," she replied absently, her eyes following those wide shoulders. _Yum!_ Her brain sighed. She sighed, too, aloud. "Believe me, I know all about it, let me tell you. But…but, it's not as though he can help it, can he? Stupid Sorting Hat."

"No, really." The Weasel looked very serious all the sudden, a concerned frown furrowing his brow and he even went so far as to reach across the teapot to feel hers. "I fear for you, Parkinson. Do take a load off, right away. We'll find a Healer."

"Gerroff, Weasel!" She shrugged of his touch irritably, scowling. "No touchy!"

"Oi!—no need to hit me, Parkinson!" The Weeasel sat well back, scooting out of harm's way. "It's just. Just. He's…well, you do _know_ he's a Hufflepuff, Parkinson? I mean to say, you _are _aware of that? Haven't hit your head recently or drunk something you shouldn't've? Stand too close to Longbottom in Potions?" He gulped, paling, rubbing his chin thoughtfully with the hand Pansy had just batted away with scratchy claws. "Or was it…was it a dare? 'Cause I know for fact you Slyths like to pull some really nasty pranks one another…"

"Of course I do," Pansy snapped, rising. She tottered on her best heels, the yellow ones, and slammed a few galleons and knuts down on the tablecloth. She could feel her cheeks pinken with temper. "I know very well, thanks so much. Look—it's my treat. Be grateful, all you gits; I've bought your tea. I never do that—so please do me a favour in return and close your gob, Weaselbee, if you know what's good for you. He's Hufflepuff, alright? No denying it. I'm the one shagging him, aren't I? Has yellow-and-black striped y-fronts, _my _boy—" she gulped, closing her eyes briefly for courage. Opened them and stood as tall as she could whislt wobbling. "My_ boyfriend_; looks like a bloody bee in his drawers. Ridiculous, yes. Still—he's mine and I happen to like him. _Like_ like him. So there. What of it? Sod off."

"Erm?' Granger parted her lips, blankly blinking at Pans's Huffle, who was rapidly bearing down upon them. They all winced as he shouldered aside two elderly Witches following behind a perky server and then proceeded to pause and apologize profusely, blushing all up his neck. "Oh…ho? Parkinson?"

"What?" she scowled. "_Think_, Granger. Our Draco's shagging your Scarhead—what's the deal, Gryffindicks? Can't handle a little mingling?"

"Just," the Weasel shrugged, apparently giving it up as a bad job. "Alright." These Gryffs really were about protecting everyone, even the ones who needed none. "O…kay. Sure thing. Right—okay. _Your_ business, of course, Parkinson, whom you shag. 'Pologies. Can shag Hagrid, if you want."

"Ew!" The entire table of them stopped their various reactions to stare wildly at one another—and to shudder. "Eeeeew!"

"Sorry! I just…I mean," Weasel went on earnestly. "I rather thought you Snakes didn't, uh, erm, _do_ other Houses. 'Specially Hufflepuff. What's _with _that? Since when?"

"Yes, really," the Brain chimed in finally, muddy brown eyes very narrow indeed. "This a new trend, Parkinson? A Slytherin outreach programme? First Malfoy and now you? What gives with the ruddy inter-House unity?"

"Oh, um," Blaise coughed gently, thrusting himself back in the conversation. "'S'cuse me for barging in and all that rot, but _I_, as a matter of fact, am also seeing a person of the Hufflepuff persuasion, thanks ever so. Justin Finch—"

"_Fletchley_, Blaise?" That caught Pansy's attention. "Bwah-haha!" She smirked down at him. "_Hah_! Seeing_ to_, rather. That chap's as nance as they come! Nice bum, though."

"Oi!" Blaise frowned up at her. "Sod off with your bloody sarcasm, Pans; you've no room to comment. And yes, now that you mention—very nice. He's…well, he's soft. Um. But firm, too. In all the right places, okay?"

"Whatever you say, Blaise," Pansy smirked. "Soft…yet firm. Just know that I know, now."

Blaise had the temerity to flush darkly, in a very non-Slyth manner—and this before a fellow Slytherin and two bloody curious Gryffs. "Hrrnh!" He cleared his throat, blinking rapidly and looking every which way but at Pansy. "Right—whatever. Go off to your Hufflely Stephen, then, girl, if you can't be civil about my Justin. Leave be."

"Will wonders never cease?" Granger breathed into her tea cup, apropos of nothing. "Merlin!"

"Yeah, really," Weasel nodded across to her sympathetically. "And here I thought Slyths were so snooty and stuck-uppity—"

"Well, apparently we aren't, Weasel, so just shut your trap," Pansy glared. "Learn something new every day, don't you? Imagine _you_ do—great big empty space between those awful huge ears of yours. Begs for stuffing of some sort."

"Oi!" Weasel whinged, looking hurt. "You don't have to be unfriendly, Parkinson. Was just looking out for you."

"Oh, Ron…" Granger sighed heavily as she petted his elbow, but she seemed proud of the git anyway.

Pansy shrugged. Gryffs were from Mars. Or maybe Jupiter.

"Right, then. Listen up, folks. One more time."

All eyes turned to her. She stomped a heel for emphasis.

"About Potty and our Draco,_ if_ we can manage to stick to the subject. Granger," she swiveled snapping eyes to pinpoint Girl Gryffindor squarely, "you're responsible for owling us if it doesn't work out, alright? I imagine you'll go back soonest of all of us; missing the Library and all that, so catch me later. I'll be…" Pansy tossed her head, "late returning, I'm sure."

"Right-oh." Granger nodded amicably. "Sure, Parkinson," she said. "And if they do happen to show up down here in the village, make certain to let _us_ know, alright? I want to see if it's worked out."

"Done and done, Brain. And it will, don't fret. Consider it a given. But they won't bother with the village, you know. Empty dorm rooms—empty beds."

"Gah!" Weasel blanched. "Stop reminding me, Parkinson. You Slyths are really very cruel, you know?"

"Deal with it, Weasel."

"Oh! Um, hey—Pans?" Blaise was back on the abandonment issue he seemed to be suffering from. "Pansy-baby? Listen, darling, I'm just rethinking this and the fact of the matter is, I'm rather at loose ends here and I was just musing over it, well. Mayhap I could tag along with you two…?"

"Pansy? Sweetie-pie?"

Blaise's plea was lost to her. Pansy's Huffle had meantime arrived, shuffling and shy, having threaded through gluts of fellow students busily gaping at the amazing sights Hogsmeade Day Out had brought them: firstly, two hardboiled Slyths tranquilly taking a spot of tea with the Two of the Three, of the noble House of Gryff, and secondly, a young male Huffle in approaching orbit, and further, after that, a young male Huffle clearly gagging after 'La Parkinson'. Parkinson, that was. She who was known far and wide for her razor'd remarks and generally caustic attitude. She who spat nails at Firsties and sharpened claws on Profs.

"Pansy! I've been waiting absolute ages for you, darling," the Huffle in question went on, blushing, "not that I mind in the least, babyface—oh! And I've gone ahead and ordered those scones you like—the gingersnap ones, right? So, er? C-Could we? Day's wasting, honey. And I want to take you off shopping, remember? Gladrags, you said you wanted?"

"Yes, luv," Pansy's black eyes were anything but hardboiled when she met his earnest blue-violet ones. Oh! But her Huffle was fine! "Nice to see you, too, but one more moment, sweets. Not quite through, here. Oh, and meet the Gryffindorks, will you? I've just to grab my bag and powder my nose. You Two, this is Stephen. Stephen Winkle. Stephen, these are the Weasel and the Brain, aka Granger and Weasley. You know Blaise Zabini already, I believe. Whingy sod he is."

"Oi! I am not, Pans!"

"Oh, hiya!" Stephen said obligingly, nodding round the table at Blaise and the Two. "Hey, Zabini. Um…and?" He flushed faintly, gazing at the Gryff lot. Who stared at him in return, noneplessed. "I'm _so _glad, really—at last! To have this chance, y'see."

"Er…kay." The Mudblood was mumbled to herself. "I s'pose it works out. Gryff to Slyth, Slyth to Huffle. Oi! Yes…Oh! Um, hullo, Stephen." She extended a hand across the tabletop. "Nice to meet you, too. Welcome."

"Oi," Blaise, ever the social one, recovered himself smartly and winked kindly at Pansy's Stephen. "Winkle. Pleasure, old chap. So, yeah. Take this wretched bint away, please—_with_ my blessing, mate. She's been biting our heads off and beating our poor ears, all this time. Sweeten her up, mate. Do your magic."

"Oh! Um!" Stephen blushed. "My-my _magic_, you say? Ah…kay?"

"Sod off, Blaise!" Pansy snorted. "I have not!"

"Pfft!" Weasel snorted quietly to himself. "_I'll _say," he muttered. "Ears beaten, check. And got no head left to me, not now. Bint's chewed it right up. 'Do this', 'do that'—'don't even think about t'other'!"

"Ronald!" Granger hissed, poking him. "Be nice! And…you do have a head, Ron," she tacked on, blushing madly. "I should know."

"Her-_Hermione_!" That shut the Weasel up, finally. But for the jaw hanging down, which was rude in the extreme. Pansy snorted but was forced to waste yet another precious moment staring the ginger git down. It seemed to work alright—until he winked at her, sideways, just as he turned away. Just a sly twitch of the lid, barely discernible to any but a trained Slytherin observer, but it had her gasping.

"Oh! Oh, _you_! Go on with you, Weasel!"

Fortunately, her Huffle was making a diversion, making great big Crup puppy eyes at Scarhead's best mates.

"Uh-um, Granger, it's such an honour," Stephen meanwhile shuffled in place, fluttering his hands pointlessly. He gamely ignored Blaise's advice to haul Pansy off and instead flushed a brilliant shade of red, eyes fixed on the Mudblood and the Weasel. "I've been—I've actually been really wanting to meet you. Um, heard a lot about you—oh! May I address you as Her-Her—"

"_Hermione_ is fine, Stephen," Granger bobbed her chin kindly. "Um...you have? Why so?"

"Yes!" Stephen bounced on his toes, an unfortunate habit Pansy had the poor taste to find 'cute'. "Yes, it was Binn's class, Hermione! Really brill score on that extra points presentation you turned in for the old fellow, yeah? We were all so impressed, down in our Common room. So, um…congrats. I was just saying to Justin this morning before we left that _I _would never have thought of combining Perslop's Principle with the Catatonic Runes of—"

"Er…sure you're not Ravenclaw, Winkle?" Weasel butted in to query. "That's bloody confusing, Perslop. But, look, er. Could you take it elsewhere if you're planning on talking up lessons? It's Saturday, mate. And my head already aches a bit from the sugar."

"Yes, well." Granger, pleased, blushed just as much as Pansy's Stephen was, ducking her chin demurely. "Er…thanks," she replied. "It was just…eh, luck, really, that I noticed it. Um…Stephen. This is Ronald Weasley. Also Gryffindor. You might know of him…?"

"Weasley," Stephen smiled broadly at the famed Gryff Keeper. "Oh, yes! Yes, I do!" He sparkled, a habit which annoyed a mindful Pansy to no end…or had, once upon a time. Now she merely regarded it fondly, more fool her. "You're that famous Gryffindor Keeper, aren't you? Potter's mate, yeah? The one Pansy's best mate wrote that great song about? 'Weasel is Our King' and all that? I think you're awesome, mate—really, really! I cheer for you all the time—when I;m not cheering Slytherin. Which I have to, you know," he nodded over at Blaise and Pancy, "what with—"

"Yes! I get it…um, thanks?" Obviously bewildered, the Weaselbee nodded. "Um…d'you want to maybe…? Er, dunno…take Parkinson away now? She's looking a bit peeved, mate."

Stephen, lost in admiration, didn't catch it.

"Hey, now I've got you here? I've been so wanting to have this opportunity! I mean, to really talk with you!" He was practically jittering on his toes and looked ready enough to plop his arse down and dive into a serious bout of Quidditch. Pansy frowned at her compact. "I mean to say! You're the expert, right? You're really brilliant at Quidditch, you know? Great moves, man, 'specially that last game against Ravenclaw." His face lit up. "I mean, it's not everyone who can take a Bludger full-on the way you did—not and live to tell about it! Me and all my mates were so excited you did it! What a brilliantly thick forehead you must have!"

"Too right," Pansy muttered.

"Right, right," Weasley flushed a dull red, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. "Nice to meet you, too—Stephen, is it?"

"Yeah," Stephen grinned. "Stephan Winkle. But I go by—"

"_Stevie_, luv," Pansy was positively ready to depart—more than. Had been, for bloody ages. "_No _Quidditch, ducks. No more, at least not now. We're already off to a late start." She laid a hand full of manicured fingernails rather possessively across her Huffle's flapping arm and seized him, ignoring the crestfallen glance Weasley's way. "No, some other time, I promise. I'm sure you'll be seeing the great King Weaselbee again, soon. But for now, escort me, darling. We'll stay for just a moment longer, aright? Those scones you ordered for me will be stone cold if we linger with these sods. Ta, Blaise. Ta, dorks."

"Oh! Oh—well! Bye now!"

She nodded and swept her Huffle away before he'd a chance to say his goodbyes. He mouthed them instead, enthusiastically, peering over her well-clad shoulder and smiling to beat the band.

"…Huh." Hermione, ever polite, wriggled her fingers in limp-wristed response. She smiled, somewhat mechanically. "Amazing."

"What?" Blaise cocked a twinkling eyeball at Hermione. "Something the matter, Granger?"

"...No," she shrugged. "Not really. I, er. I just see some things now that I hadn't before. Right, Ronald?"

Weasley got himself a quick poke in the ribcage. He jumped, as he'd been busily finishing off Pansy's barely touched biscuits, gobbling tem down as fast as he could.

"Oi!" he yelped. "What's it! What now, Hermione? Busy, here."

"Don't you, Ron?" He was blinked at, in a classic nod-is-as-good-as sort of manner. She shook her head impatiently at him when he still stared blankly, chewing. "Y'know, Ron, um. See…_things_…in a different light, now? Just…_now_?"

"Er! Ah!" The freckles were suddenly quite evident; Weasley's fair skin showed every emotion that swept through him. "Oh, yeah—right! Surely. _Yes_, Hermione, I do. Uh-huh. 'Bout Harry, you mean, and Malfoy—and all that. Sure! Oh—and the bloody Huffles. I see Huffles differently too, now. Real eye-opener, Huffles. Fancy."

"Really, Ron?" The Brain seemed unconvinced.

"Positively, Hermione."

Weaselbee shrugged, feebly, eyes searching out Blaise's in mute appeal. 'Girls!' they seemed to say. 'What _can_ you do, mate, yeah? Oh! And…boys, too.'

"Mean to say," he continued broadly, waving a vague arm in the direction of the disappeared Pansy and Stephen Winkle. "Who knew? Not me! But all good. All good, Hermione."

"Good. Great. Super." Granger stared at him and Blaise eyed the two of them dukeing it out nonverbally, eyeball to rolling eyeball, almost but not quite laughing aloud. Gryffs were the weirdest House, truly. "Excellent; glad to hear it, Ronald. Now."

She set down her cuppa with a decided clink. Blaise grinned.

"Er, shall we two be going? I wanted to pick up some extra parchment. At Scribner's, Ron. Remember? And you wanted Zonko's, too, I think. So, erm…ta, Zabini. Enjoy your day with Finch-Fletchly. He's just here—" she flapped a small hand at the bumblebee-coloured crush filling the quaint doorway, "with your friend Bulstrode in tow. Likely looking for you."

"Oh, yes?" Blaise eagerly spun round in his seat, smiling when he caught sight of his particular Huffle. Justin had a lovely front, which matched his nice firm bum in a quite suitable manner. Currently, it was smiling and waving excited fingers at him. Bulstrode, on the other hand, was dour, as a proper Slyth should be. "Lovely. Millie came through for me. I'm all set, then; brill. Hey, g'day to you too, Gryffindicks. Have fun now."

"'N'to you," Weasley allowed, shrugging at Granger and reluctantly dragging himself away from the last of the food. "Zabini."

The Weasel could be heard mumbling loudly even as Granger latched onto his elbow and steered him away. She muttered something in his freckled ear, gazing up at him earnestly.

"What's that, Hermione? Oh, no. A blast, sure. Was one. Right, then. Let's be off; no dawdling about. I need the sweets shop, right smart after we buy your ruddy parchment. Need to load up on Frogs—buy a case of 'em, maybe. Chocolate's brilliant for stress, you know? Harry's like to need some as well, I'll warrant…gave me a full purse this morning; said to load up—"

TBC…


	3. Chapter 3

**HD Seeing**

**Part Three**

Robes 'round corners; glimpses of them, teasing. Bags left lying about carelessly in cobwebby corners. Shiny scraps of fabric glittering oddly and draped over human-shaped lumps—pardon, _boy_-shaped lumps—which panted heavily and writhed like liquid mercury.

It had begun again, whatever it was. Pansy saw it.

…The Slytherin Common room door opening and closing for no reason, after curfew. Draco's chest—she caught sight of it quite by accident one morning when she tumbled into their dorm far too early in the meridian. It was…well, it was quite clear someone had been feasting indiscriminately upon it. Swollen nips, finger marks, reddened skin, as if beard-scraped: all that. Nothing foul…nothing that would cause a best mate to feel uneasy, but. Evidence.

The complete absence of snippy spot-hexing on her best mate's part and the increasing preponderance of staring contests engaged in by her Draco with that Scarhead at every opp. 'Specially meal times.

Pansy shuddered over her essay, wincing.

Food-gasms, actually, to take it to another level. The eye-shagging was back on, apparently no holds barred this time round. 'Cept now it was a full facial they were handing each other when every other poor unfortunate student was merely occupied with the business of eating. Which both appalled and amused Pansy mightily, when she chanced to observe Scarhead suck up limp lengths of sauced linguini using inordinate amounts of visible tongue. His rather unusual toady-pickle-bog coloured eyes were glued to her best mate's pink-coloured cheeks all the while, watching—watching for effect, no doubt. And then –because Potty one-upping him in any arena would be abhorrent, naturally—_her _Draco, the very much 'my-shite-doesn't-smell' Malfoy scion, leapt into instantly deep-throating his grilled sausage in petty revenge, an act which (Pansy noted) nearly caused Potter to suffer a coronary attack. Had to be uncomfortable, that, as well as inappropriate; Pansy didn't envy Scarhead his brilliant red cheeks nor the way he slapped both palms over his marinara'd lips, as if to keep his lolling tongue in check.

Yes, evidence. Incontrovertible.

Yes, and speaking of tongues: Draco licking and sucking his pudding during that same dinner's dessert as if the metal itself were more edible and scrumptious than the butterscotch mousse it conveyed—and then there was (of course) Potter's abortive surge forward and up at the sight of leftover whipped cream dripping sultrily from that Malfoy chin, his spec lenses flashing semaphore across the way for 'Shag me!'—or possibly 'Shag _you_, Malfoy!', who knew? And then (thankfully) that feint towards Slytherin table promptly halted by a resigned and bilious-looking Weasel.

Pansy scowled at her textbook. It was difficult to memorize any runes a'tall when her mind's eye was forced to recall such sights. Gah! Mind-boggling, the byplay. Well…foreplay, really. She had no question that whatever the two fools got up to after the abysmal dinner exhibitions was rather intense. They were boys, after all. 'Randy' was a given.

However, on the bright side, Pansy had noted that Granger seemed much the less wound-up lately. Apparently her curiosity had been satisfied. How ruddy super for _her_, the bint!

Pansy herself, however—and she was miffed over this, no mistake—had not been informed by _her _Draco that all was well again with Scarhead. She'd had to surmise it…from evidence, piling up. Clearly Scarhead was more forthcoming with his intimates.

Cursing her best mate's tight-lipped pride, Pansy scribbled down a line or two of the Rune she'd been staring at blankly for at least five minutes in a row. There had better be a good reason for that lapse or she'd have Draco's bollocks for her own breakfast.

_Hmm_…but then again, maybe the two of them had finally taken the action off to the fields of Gryffindor. Salazar knew Draco's dorm-mates were a bit teed off at being shut out of their beds so regularly—and that they made no bones about it to Draco. Theo had been whinged about sleep deprivation far too often lately…and the pair of Largish Lunks had taken to gazing forlornly at the door that led to their postprandial snack stashes, which was just too pitiful to bear. Even for Draco, stiff-rumped arse as he was.

If they had done, though…what a damned welcome relief. Slytherin would be once again spared the glimpses of half-naked Gryffindor gits populating their sacred passages; hallelujah!

But not spared the suspense. Bloody Malfoy said not a word but his actions were damning, blast him.

Regular corridor Slyth-Griyff huddles happened oftener if anything, and the resultant furtive hunched-shoulder, sideways-peeping passed note-reading in Potions and DADA was rampant, after. Besotted twats—they acted as the Third Year's did, with no concept of decorum or breeding. Disgraceful! Once, Pansy could swear she actually caught them holding hands under the work bench in Herbology. Over the empty pots tucked beneath. As if they honestly believed all Hogwarts was both blind and brainless.

Boys blushing. Boys smelling of boys._ Boys_—drat them!

Worse even than Huffles.

Pansy gritted her teeth and finished off her note-taking with a flourish. This would not continue much longer—she'd have a thing or two to say about it, if it was the last thing she did! Besides, the moonlings were making her life difficult: the classroom conveniently abandoned in Astronomy Tower? Still inaccessible. And she and her Stephen rather required it.

"About the Astronomy classroom door, Draco dear," she remarked one evening after the great Slyth-Gryff Teatime Intervention. She had worked off her temper just before, in preparation, by terrifying the other inmates of her dorm. Greengrass was still cleaning up the exploded bottles of nail laquer. "D'you think you might….possibly?"

"Er…?" She was subject to a very level stare from the opposite end of their shared sofa. A cultivated air of boredom, the sort her Draco employed with mostly everyone else. It galled her instantly. "What about it, Pans?"

"The door, Draco," she repeated patiently, reminding herself yet again this was her best mate and she should simply hex him for breathing. "It won't come open; there's a Charm on it." Really, she could empathize with Granger's disgust; he'd gone all gormless, eyes wide open like that and staring. "It's a difficult Charm, darling. One you would know, I'm sure. Remove it, if you please."

"Which door would that be?"

Bah! Pooh! Idiot git _was_ playing dumb. Pansy scowled at him and went so far as to shake a finger.

"You know exactly which door. I expect you to fix it, darling. I think we've all been very patient but enough _is_ enough."

"I've absolutely no idea of what you're speaking of, Pans. I suggest," Draco ostentatiously resettled his text in his lap, lounging back against the cushion and dared drawl at her, "you consult with Mr. Filch. Filch _is _Caretaker, Pansy. _He_ does doors. P'raps _he_ can be service."

Pansy snorted, not amused.

"Nutter. Filch can't do magic, darling; he's a Squib. Now, do stop yanking my chain, Draco. Set the damned door to rights; I want egress."

"No can do," Draco shrugged. "Can't help you, Pans; sorry. It's not mine to sort."

"Fustian, twat! It is too!"

Pansy glowered at her kneecap, pondering how to budge her mate from his stance. They'd seem to have come to an entente of sorts, Draco and Potter, but they still hadn't gone public. She would know, wouldn't she—after all her bustle about to force the gits to bloody _do _something? This was maddening.

Pansy huffed. If she weren't absolutely positive Potter was a dead-loss in the 'fun-and-games' department, she'd have sworn they were at it deliberately. That this was an act, nothing more, and one enacted solely for the sake of their own amusement. Would be just like Draco, sneaking about when he didn't need to, just for the sodding puerile thrill of it.

"You protest too much, ducks," she settled for chiding. "You can do this, Draco. So—do it! And cease with this silly brush-off, git. I'm not buying it."

"Of course not." Draco shrugged again, sending a dismissive eyebrow up and up. "It's simply I've. No. Idea. Pansy." He shook his head ever slowly, as if she were barmy, and sent her a hard-to-read glance.

"No idea of what, Draco?" she demanded, sitting forward and casting her lessons aside.

"What it is you're talking about," he enunciated, nice and easy. The patronizing git—she would hex him! "Ahem. With this classroom door you speak of. I say again, talk to Filch, do. He's the man to see about a door. Not me."

Pansy sighed, rummaging about in her bag for her spare bar of emergency chocolate. Sometimes it acted to soothe her nerves when she was forced to deal with the male half of the population.

"Now you're just being difficult. Prat."

"Well, excuse me for existing, Pans." Draco humped a shoulder, eyes retrned to his DADA readings. Pansy winged her extra hairbrush at him in temper. It brassed her off mightily when he dodged without so much as looking up.

"More like excuse you for being a prat, Draco—which I find I cannot, dear, as it's part of your nature," she sniffed, offended on every level. Limbre dickweed,_ her_ Draco. No wonder he was Slytherin's Seeker. And no wonder his bloody boyfriend was always grinning daftly. The two of them couldn't be more suited! "Now, the door. _I_ want the door unCharmed. Pronto, please. This is _me_ requesting it of _you_, specifically, mate."

"As I've said, darling, can't help you, sorry." Really! Pansy snorted. Draco was just like one of those broken Muggle phonographs over in the Muggle Studies Artifacts Area. "Not my issue."

"Oh, but it is, ducks," she shot back frostily, "and don't think you can fool me, either."

Then again, Potter's gaze over at Slytherin had been a million candlepower brighter lately. Bloody glittered with green-gold sparkles, like he'd his boggy eyes sprinkled with fairy dust…and the sneers he sent Draco could be viewed as regular smiles, if one angled one's chin just so and peered properly.

Hmmm…smiles. Lots of them, abounding from both sides of the Hall. Meeting and being shared and then increasing in brilliance, if that were even possible. Pansy swallowed back her internal bile; boys were just obvious, damn it!

However—evidence. It was possible—just p'raps—that the messy-haired git wasn't a total freak of a Muggle-raised nightmare; that he did indeed have what it took to keep a Slytherin hooked. And…her Draco always had appreciated a bloke who could joke; maybe Potter….well. Maybe.

Bah! Total humbug! Besides—what did she care if the two twats were silly as newly-hatched goslings? She'd her own life awaiting her, hadn't she? And if she wished it to include uninterrupted shagging, that ruddy Astronomy classroom was integral.

"Bloody hell," she gritted, her small store of patience completely exhausted. "Fine!" She tapped her toe. "I'll just ask Potter. He'll do it; he's a bloody hero, isn't he?"

"What? No!" Draco hissed, sitting straight up with a jolt. "…Silly bint," he tacked on, visibly getting hold of himself. "Why ever would you?"

"And why wouldn't I, Draco?" Pansy asked, drumming her nails on the cushion. "You have a better suggestion?"

Maybe it could be that. Potter might actually be a little bit clever. There was talk from the Gryffindork Duo that he could've been sorted Slytherin, once, long ago. Not that _she_ cared a fig. She cared about the door, the one opening to the classroom she and Stephen would dearly like to make use of. And only the door, thanks ever so.

Now—to ensure it would be unlocked. She fixed a brilliant glare upon her mate.

"Draco?" she prompted.

He tossed his head at her and curled his lip in a familiar defense.

"…Pans, why ever would you ask Potter to fiddle with a magicked-shut door?" She could see he was doing his level best to appear nonchalant and unaffected, but he was rattled, nonetheless. Or perhaps more…teasing? Yes! Right there! A telltale twinkle in the corner of an eye, the sign he'd been yanking her chain all along. "Potter's pants at Charms; we all know that."

"Draco." Pansy examined her nails. Singly. With deliberation. "Darling."

"…Yes?"

"You're not fooling anyone, Draco. Not me—not even Vince and Greg, alright?"

"Excuse me?"

"It really is alright, _capiche_? It's _fine_, Draco—it's not as if we care whom it is you're shagging even if it is a gross insult to our House pride and a complete about-face for you, as a Malfoy. Really, we don't, darling. We just require that silly door unstuck, that's all. Simple."

"Pansy…" Her best mate scooched closer, setting his book aside. "Pansy?" He leant over her, which in itself was odd, because Draco was a bit of stand-offish a bloke generally and to pet his hair Pans had always had to cajole him for ages. Now a pair of very serious grey eyes pinned her to her seat on the tufted squabs. "Pans…see, it's not so simple. That's just it."

"Hmm?" Pansy placed her talons to her lap and folded them tightly. They were painted yellow and black, in sneaking fond support of her Huffle boyfriend…and Pans didn't particularly give an owl's hoot who knew or who didn't, not anymore. "Yes, darling? Something to say? Alohamora, p'raps? Or…better yet, that I may go and chase down Scarhead to do it—?"

"Pansy," Draco snorted softly, "be serious. Please. He's not pants really, but_ I_ was the one—and you know it. I've used that Charm on my trunk for ages now."

"So?"

"So. Er—mm. May I…" Draco hesitated, which was completely unlike him. Pansy instantly snapped to full attention. "May I tell you something? Something just between us?"

He blinked at her, her best mate; tilting his head just so, the way he had done when he was all of six and wanted a sweet from the cache her elder brother Erwin had bought her. Not that Erwin had ever given her gifts anywhere near often enough, but…still, it had been rather nice to have something a Malfoy didn't.

Not that she'd lorded it over him…particularly.

Pansy shrugged the recollection away; no time to waste on silly sentimentality, was there?

"Well. Well…alright. I'll hear you out—if you make it quick, darling. I've plans after I finish this." She flapped a hand at her pile of parchments and texts. Bloody lessons—always in the way of shagging!

Draco—the utter twat—only kept on looking at her, just like_ that_, from beneath his long lashes.

_That _had her. Buggerall, she was melting! And all due to stupid boy and his stupid romance!

Curse it, but she'd always maintained a soft spot for him, stupid boy; he was her best mate forever and a day, for gods' sake! And now…and now the poor old prat seemed so in earnest, so ruddy serious and—and _Gryffindor_, she simply could do nothing other than scoot over to snuggle next to him and open her ears to their widest.

Bloody…damned…boys! They'd hidden talents, didn't they? _So _not fair—so not right.

"Oh, bother! Of course you may." She patted his knee. "Now—tell Auntie Pansy all, ducks. I'm listening."

"Well…" Draco swallowed, shifting uneasily. "This is in the strictest confidence, Pan, but—he likes it. Potter does. So…you see?"

"….Um," Pansy couldn't help but raise her eyebrows at him. "No, sorry." She did not see. So far as she could tell, Draco had not actually revealed anything of importance. Other than the fact he could utter the name 'Potter' without sneering. Which comstituted—for his best mate on Earth—a giant clue as to his state and condition. Which was…immaterial, really, as she sorted that long ago. "What is it you're saying to me, Draco?"

Draco humped a shoulder. Slid an arm oer theback of the divan and stared off into the fireplace. He even flushed, the colour coming and going in floods, blooming high on his angular cheekbones.

"_He_ likes it. So I…So_ I_ let it. Happen, that is. Right?"

"Likes what, Draco?" Really, she was genuinely curious. "Let what happen?" What was it the Scarhead liked so much? Draco? Well—that was a given…but. But why was Draco so fixated upon it, this unknown item Potty liked? Her mate was not one to wallow about in the depths of other's feelings and be empathetic or enabling; oh, no, he'd a hard enough time sorting his own gut to deal with the niceties of understanding someone else's finer emotions. She tilted her chin at him enquiringly. "What does Potter like, Draco—and why should I care, more to the point?"

"Er…hiding," Draco nodded faintly, just a bob of the chin. "Sneaking about, I s'pose. Secrets. Silly, yeah, but…" He lifted his fingertips, spreading them wide and shrugging slightly, as if this were all of no importance whatsoever and he'd no idea why he'd brought it up. "See? It's a little thing, but—I just. You know. Right?"

"No." For a Slytherin fellow, her Draco was failing miserably at making himself clear. Pansy frowned at him, waiting further elucidation. "No, I do not see. What are you getting at, ducks?"

"…No? But, Pans—" he seemed taken aback, "you're a girl. You're s'posed to, aren't you?"

"Git!" Pansy poked him—hard—right in the middle of his breast bone. "Draco. Draco, my very dearest dear dunce, I completely fail to grasp it, this nonsense over Potter. What _are _you speaking of, exactly?"

"…Er."

Damned muddle. Why must boys be so confusing when they honestly believed they were laying out their silly thoughts all fair and square and plain to see? She's noticed it too with her Stephen, silly bugger. Had taken her Huffle bloody ages to frame the proper words to impart one simple fact: she was liked.

"What secrets, Draco?" _Liked _as in more than just desired. _Liked_…as in fluffy bunnies and Valentine's Day presents. "Because I hate to say this, but there are none left. We all know." _Liked_, damn it all. "We know everything and have done for months now."

"Yes, of course," Draco seemed very stiff and starchy all the sudden; absolutely wouldn't peek at her. "You and Blaise do. Likely half Hogwarts, by now. I expected it, really. Told him it wouldn't be unnoticed…but…"

Pansy nodded, somewhat abstracted. "But?"

…No._ She_ was _dear_. To_ her_ Stephen. Sexy, naturally. Fit, of course. Difficult, admittedly…but also very dear. And to a Hufflepuff, there could be no higher form of compliment.

"I want him to be happy." It was a bald-faced statement—the sort Draco would never in his right nind admit to—and Pansy barely noticed.

Love. What a weird concept! But…Stephan had said…and she'd no reason to doubt him. Huffle, what? _Yes_, bloody Huffle!

Oh, bother!

"It's. It's just a small thing," her companion was mumbling on, unheeded. "I mean, it's more a joke, really. What we're doing. Get it?"

"…Huh?" Pansy blinked at him, pulled out of her own abstraction by the needy thread in that low mutter. Grey eyes were still watching her, very carefully.

"D'you…ahem!" He cleared his throat, shifting uneasily on his cushion. "Do you see, Pans? What I meant by it?"

Oh! P'raps that was what her mate was getting at? He liked Potter; ergo Potter was dear as well. Potter—silly twat he was—liked sneaking (weird little git) about and—also ergo—they snuck. Obviously, demonstrably and for no good reason other than Draco was indulging Potty just as a bloody Hufflepuff would _his_—

Binning that dangerous thought swiftly, Pansy allowed an exclamation of understanding to escape her painted lips.

"Ah!"

Draco turned his eyes back to her, regarding her with something like hope.

"Ah? So…you so see, Pans? Do you? How I'm—and he—well. It's, er…it's like that."

"Yes. Bloody infants, the both of you," Pansy pronounced roundly, "but—"

"But?"

"But…I s'pose it's alright. Just…please unbar that one door, darling. There's others who want to use it, you know? Such as _me_."

"Mmm." Draco nodded reluctantly. "Hmm…maybe," he allowed after a moment's frowning at the floor. "If the prat's over it, I might do. But not till then. Sorry."

"What?" Pansy stared at him. "Is it really that important, Draco? One classroom amongst many? I mean, there's thousands in Hogwarts, half of them unused, and you've the cloak and the map and all Potty's parlour tricks at your disposal—"

"No, Pans!" Draco stiffened. "You don't quite get it, do you?"

"Of course I do, Draco."

"You _don't_. You don't understand him. He's—well, he's not had much fun, alright? Been…it's been difficult. For him. So I—so _I_, at least—and you can call me a fool, if you like; I don't care—I want to ensure he has some. He fancies that one, in particular; dunno' why, but we've got it all Transfigured now, just to our liking. So…it has to wait. Till he's says it's alright. Then we'll likely move on."

"Ohhhh…" Pansy tossed her head. "_Now_ I see. Bloody dimwit—bloody sentimental dimwit! Why didn't you just tell me all that in the first place? I'm not an ogre, Draco. I can understand the urge to wish someone happy, you know."

Draco caught up her hands, examining them closely, grinning finally at them in their bumblebee-hued glory.

"I know, love. I do know."

"Then, Draco…" Pansy furrowed her brow thoughtfully. "What of this? Hide the door, ducks. Make it disappear and then no one will mind….well,_ I_ will, but that's beside the point. What they can't see, they won't bother with, hmm?"

"Hmm?" Draco did his usual, when considering a plan: tilting his head this and that way, so his bright hair slid softly, brushing down across his high forehead. "Notice Me Not, Pans? Eh, think it would suffice?"

"Yes," she nodded emphatically. "They're all idiots when they're like that, up the Tower. Heads in their pants and knickers anyway. Not thinking—not reasoning a'tall. They'll just…continue on their way, Draco. You and your—" she paused to shiver in disgust for having to say it aloud; _really_—boys! "You and your Scarhead will be safe for quite some time to come."

"Hmm…" It took but a moment but then her best mate nodded. "Right, er…that'll work—but."

"But?"

"What of you?"

Boys! Pansy shook her head at him, scowling as black as black could be. She was no fool, thanks ever so so—she was a dab hand at coping, after all. No Carrow had ever made her quail; no nasty werewolf had ever shaken her cool…well, p'raps Draco's auntie LeStrange had been a bit much, but still—she'd managed, hadn't she?

"Don't worry your pretty little head over me, Draco," she sneered. "There's such as thing as Wizarding Space, don't you know? And that room—the one up on the seventh floor corridor? It's…well, it's alright again."

"It_ is_?"

"Indeed," Pansy nodded sharply. "All clear. A lovely décor, too, for which you may thank me. None of this horrible InterHouse Unity mishmash Headmistress has the Hall wearing either. Bah! My poor eyes! Green and bronze interspersed with royal blue and that horrid scarlet bunting, Draco—it effing pains me, I tell you! Every meal's a torture session."

"Really, Pansy? It really is?"

She petted him….the poor thing. The failed Cabinet venture must've have scarred the twat somehow. And then the Fiendfyre—silly Crabbe. Still…all was well that ended well and what with Potty doing his Hero bit in re the evil Dark Lord and then Hagrid the Horrible finding poor Vince later in the wreckage, wrapped up in a bubble of fresh air by the Room itself…well. All good. Or, at least…

It was over with. Done and done, now. All the nightmare—all the suffering. And _her_ Draco? Well, he was boy, yes—and therefore an idiot, too, for falling for Potter, but. Boys did do what boys did do, right? Even if it made no sense whatsoever to an intelligent female.

_Boys_…whatever could one do about them? Must needs must, after all. They existed, the sods. Had to make the best of it, she supposed. Even sodding Erwin.

End

_Note: This is much longer than I thought it would be and it took a few twists and turns I didn't expect, so forgive, dearest subtlefire, for making you wait about ever so patiently, and do please forgive the mistakes inherent, as it is not beta'd. And do (most important of all) enjoy an excellent year and many more to come! _


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